Only Us
by Basser
Summary: The Holmes family fractures in bits and pieces, leaving the children to support each other. Mycroft isn't sure he's cut out to be a parent. Companion piece to Only Intelligent.
1. Comfort

**A/N: **_The internet's been spotty for the last few days (which isn't entirely surprising considering I live in Alaska) so to pass the time without web access I've been writing all sorts of nonsense. These little stories wriggled their way out of my head and I figured I'd share._

_Reading Only Intelligent first might give a bit more context to these but it's not necessary._

_Also I am not sure if I plan to continue this or leave it as-is. Depends on my mood._

* * *

**:::**

Mummy's shouting again and Dad's joined in now too, the both of them screeching at each other in a jumble of nasty words and foreign languages. Enola ducks her head low into the space between the sofa cushions and tries not to cry. They won't _hurt_ her, she knows that - but the yelling is frightening and their insults sting even though they're not directed at her and sometimes they toss things. She just wants it all to stop.

Their argument's switched to German now, and the fact that she can't understand a word they're saying just seems to make it all the worse. A few sniffles escape her chest as she curls up tighter into a ball. Crying won't help in the slightest but perhaps she'll feel better if she gives in to the impulse to sob like a baby anyway.

Then suddenly a hand finds hers, grasps her small fingers tightly in comfort. She lifts her tear-streaked face to find her big brother crouched down next to her.

"Enny," he starts. In the other room Mummy throws a plate at Dad, causing a loud crash that reverberates through the walls, and Enola and Sherlock both jump.

"Shewwy tell them to stop!" Enola bursts out in a choked sob. She's too young to be able to pronounce R's properly, much less the L or the hard stop of her brother's name, so it comes out sounding all wrong. He's always let her call him by whatever sounds she can manage, though, and never gets angry about it.

Sherlock winces a bit. "Yeah... I'm not going in there. We should leave."

With that he straightens up, pulling Enola's hand with him, and she finds herself scooped off the sofa. Annoying that he can pick her up so easily, but then he _is_ almost twelve. Her brother settles her weight in his arms, cradled securely against his side, and looks back over his shoulder through the entryway where they can still see their mum's blotchy red face as she shrieks foreign insults at Dad.

"Christ, she's like a bloody harpy," Sherlock mutters, doubtless to himself. Enola shouldn't know what the rude words mean but she's pieced together a lot more than most of the adults think she has - understands the intent even if she can't quite grasp the definition. Most of that is Sherlock's fault, of course. He likes to teach her things she shouldn't learn until she's older.

"Don't call Mummy names," she admonishes; the sentence comes out a bit of a mumble because she doesn't really want Sherlock to think she's angry with him. Not when he's in the middle of rescuing her, anyway. He's carrying her out of the room now and glances down with a bland, not-entirely-genuine smile.

"I'll call her whatever I like if she deserves it."

Enola gets jostled a bit as Sherlock shuffles around to free up a hand so he can open a door. South hall, going toward the staircase. She's been paying close attention to the pathways through the house over the last few months and so knows they're probably headed for his room. That's good, then. She likes Sherlock's room. It's full of interesting things and lots of colourful books.

That wing of the house is a bit of a walk, though, and halfway up the stairs Sherlock stops to set Enola down on her own two feet.

"Oof, okay, you're getting heavy," he huffs in explanation. Enola pouts, considers crying... but Sherlock fixes her with a look that says _don't you dare_ and she instead decides to focus on climbing the steps. She's not very good at it yet but she's been practising whenever she gets a chance.

Six more steps later and she's feeling quite proud of herself for how smoothly she can move from one to another. Almost like a grown-up, she thinks. Then she trips, nearly falls, and it's only Sherlock's tight hold on her hand that saves her from a tumble down the stairs.

Enola glances up. Is he going to laugh? But her big brother's just smiling fondly.

"You're alright," he says. "Just a couple more."

The last few steps are easy with him supporting most of her weight, and they're soon walking down the hall toward the door at the very end. Enola's tiny legs are no match for Sherlock's long strides. With a glance down at her jogging gait he rolls his eyes slightly and slows his pace so she can keep up easier.

"Are Mummy and Da' gonna divorce?" Enola pipes up after a moment. She doesn't quite know what 'divorce' means, to be honest, but she'd heard two of the maids talking about it the other day and wants to try the word out. Something like never speaking to each other again, she thinks. And if that's the case it would probably be a lot quieter than their current arrangement.

Sherlock scoffs. "And ruin their precious social standing? Of course not."

"But they're always fighting," Enola points out with a puzzled frown. "The maids says they stopped being in love a long time ago so they should divorce."

They reach Sherlock's room and the older boy opens the door to let Enola go in ahead of him - up here they can barely hear the muffled crashes of Mummy throwing dinner plates.

"It's more complicated than that," Sherlock explains with a slight huff of a sigh. "For one thing they'd have to decide who has to take care of us, and neither of them wants to."

Enola blinks up at him as he shuts the door behind them. "Can't Myc'off?"

She scrunches her face up a bit in annoyance with herself - can't say that name quite right either. Ugh, why are R's so difficult? But Sherlock knows what she meant anyway so it's okay.

"Mycroft's busy with uni." He reaches out to pluck Enola up by the armpits and deposits her on the rumpled duvet of his bed, then goes over to the other side of the room to rummage through the bookcase. "Though, yes, the fat git's technically eighteen now so I suppose he could take legal custody if he _had_ to," Sherlock adds over his shoulder. "I'd just as soon not have to sit through the court hearings though."

Enola's not entirely sure what her brother's talking about but she nods anyway when he turns around, just to make it seem like she's smart. Sherlock and Mycroft both like smart people best of all. Everyone says Enola's very smart for her age - a genius, even - but compared to her big brothers she never seems to know much of anything.

Feeling like a bit of an idiot's far better than how she feels when Mummy and Dad are around, however, so she quickly decides she doesn't mind that her brothers are so much cleverer than her. Being teased is more fun than finding oneself caught in the midst of a shouting match after all... though now that the topic's come up she realises she's never so much as heard Mycroft raise his voice. He's much nicer than their parents are. She wishes they could go visit him. Wishes they could visit him and never come back home at all, really.

On that note she speaks up again. "I want to live with Mycrf... mycuh... mywrof..." She cuts herself off and scowls, irked by her inability to say the name right. It's frustrating because she _knows_ how the word should sound - her stupid tongue just won't cooperate.

Sherlock returns to the bed, sits down beside her with his long legs criss-cross and quirks an amused smile down at his baby sister.

"_My_-croft," he says slowly.

"Myggof."

Enola pouts while Sherlock sniggers. He waves a hand dismissively. "Never mind. Just call him 'Myc', then. It's easier."

"Myc," Enola repeats, and _that_ finally comes out sounding proper so she says it again with a grin. Sherlock smiles too and ruffles her hair.

"There, see? Now maybe you can figure out a nickname for me that doesn't sound ridiculous and then we'll all be happy."

"You _said _to call you Shewwy," Enola says with a slight huff.

"No, I said you could call me _Sherly_ if you needed to. And then you went and bungled it all up because you're three years old and apparently the letter R is a tremendous challenge."

"Arrrrrrrr!" Enola growls, to prove a point. Because she does _not_ have a problem with Rs thank you very much she is _perfectly capable_ of talking like all the grown-ups can even though she's only three. Unfortunately the noise comes out more like _'awwwwwwuh!' _and that just makes her brother snicker again.

"Good try," he offers flippantly. Enola can tell he's not serious though and that annoys her. Before she can get into a proper sulk however he tugs her toward him, holding up the book he'd retrieved from his shelf earlier. Throwing a fit is still _highly_ appealing... but, no, the prospect of reading wins out. She fixes him with a frown first however so he'll know she's not forgiven him for being sarcastic, then clambers into his lap as he opens the book in front of them.

Sherlock doesn't start the story right away.

"Would you really rather live with Myc?" he asks instead, voice gone a bit quiet. Enola cranes her neck to peer up at him. He looks sad for some reason.

She turns her gaze back down to the book _(the caterpillar one - her favourite)_ and considers for a few seconds before speaking. Slowly and carefully, this time, so she can be sure the words form right.

"I think... Myc loves us more than Mummy and Daddy do. He was angry when you got hurt at school last month, 'member? But Mummy didn't care. And he always listens when I tell him stuff. So we should live with him instead."

Sherlock sighs slightly and leans forward to put an elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his fist so he can look down at Enola's face. She blinks up at him. He still seems sad.

"Mycroft's our brother, Enny, not our dad. It's not his responsibility to look after us."

Enola frowns. "Can't he anyway?"

Her brother huffs a sigh but doesn't answer. A long moment of silence stretches between them - Sherlock looks thoughtful, a bit stressed... definitely unhappy. Enola fidgets in his lap and hopes she hasn't done anything wrong.

Finally the older boy seems to shake himself and shifts his arm from his knee, flipping to the first page of the book. "Let's just read your book, okay? Mum and Dad'll get tired of shouting soon."

"Okay," Enola agrees quietly. She leans into Sherlock's chest and doesn't whinge when he rests his chin on her head. Together they make their way through the silly story about caterpillars. And then, because Mum and Dad haven't gotten tired yet, they move on to the one about the bears. And then the one with the ducks. And from there a chemistry textbook, because Sherlock doesn't keep that many children's books in his room.

Hours later the house is finally silent. Devoid once more of angry screaming or the crash of shattering dishes.

Enola doesn't notice, though. She's curled up in her big brother's arms, cradled to his chest under the fluffy duvet like a stuffed bear, with his face buried in her dark curls and hers pressed into his shoulder. Both of them are sound asleep.


	2. Responsibility

Mycroft breathes a quiet sigh to himself and tries to force the look of irritation off his face. In his ear his mother's busy with yet another diatribe concerning the myriad moral failings of her husband. Callousness and fiscal irresponsibility and infidelity, what a _failure_ of a man. Never mind the plethora of examples Mycroft could cite to turn every one of her complaints against her. She and Father really are identical when it comes to destroying their marriage, he muses blandly - one might even venture to call them perfect for each other if not for the small issue of their mutual hatred.

Finally she winds herself down, allowing enough of a gap between words for Mycroft to politely extricate himself from the conversation. They exchange a few insincere pleasantries before the line mercifully cuts out, Mummy having hung up first.

"She's having an affair with a bloke in Paris," a childish voice speaks up in a low, angry grumble from somewhere behind him. Mycroft glances over his shoulder to find his little brother perched on the back of an armchair by the door. How he'd managed to sneak into the room without Mycroft noticing is anyone's guess - the boy's usually hyperactive enough to wake the dead with all his mad dashing about. Though, granted... he's been much quieter since their parents started fighting in earnest. More withdrawn, callous.

Mycroft leans back in his office chair and fights the urge to sigh. Because, of course, here's yet another problem for him to worry about - his little brother might very well be developing some sort of childhood _depression_ in response to all this marital strife. And seeing as their parents are far too busy having juvenile spats with each other to take any real notice of their younger offspring it will inevitably fall to Mycroft to ensure the boy receives some sort of therapy. Brilliant. Clearly he's at a point in his life where he can realistically look after the psychological needs of a primary school child.

Sherlock can apparently read something of his big brother's thoughts on his face, because he quite suddenly glares.

"Oh, sorry, am I being a _bother?_" he snipes acidly.

"Well you _did _just sneak into a locked room to eavesdrop on a private conversation," Mycroft points out in a tone of vague weariness. Just one holiday where he doesn't have to mediate parental bickering or endure the misguided wrath of a twelve year old, that's all he asks.

Sherlock curls his lip a bit and slides off the back of the chair to stand behind it instead. "It's not my problem if you can't be bothered to use the deadbolt." He takes a step backwards, apparently intending to leave, and continues speaking as he walks. "Anyway I just thought I should let you know that Enny's been crying for the last hour and no one can get her to stop. Not that you _care_ or anything."

Ah, yes, and of course there's the rest of it - not only has sole responsibility for the welfare of a little boy been foisted on him but a _toddler_ as well. Mycroft rubs at his forehead and finally gives in to the urge to sigh.

"You're capable of calming her down, surely." Perhaps not the most appropriate thing to do, attempting to divert the issue onto Sherlock's shoulders, but sod it all he's _tired_ of this. Forcing an eighteen year old into the role of a parent isn't fair to any party involved. He has university to study for and a _career_ to think about and just... god. Why him?

Predictably all Mycroft gets for his trouble is another venomous glare.

"I told her you wouldn't give a shit," Sherlock snaps, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. Mycroft drops his hand with an aggrieved look to the empty doorway. Oh, hell... Enola had been asking for _him, _hadn't she? That's why they hadn't been able to placate her. And he'd just tried to... bloody hell, no wonder Sherlock's furious. Also where had the boy learnt to swear like that? One of the servants? His school mates? Yet another issue to be dealt with. Add it to the list.

Reluctantly he drags himself from his seat and makes his way to the hall. It's not difficult to deduce where his brother's gone, and soon Mycroft finds himself standing in the entrance to the back garden.

He pauses, not yet through the door, and simply watches his younger siblings for a moment. Sherlock's crouched down next to Enola, who's curled up miserably in a freestanding wooden swing with her favourite stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. She has her face buried in the toy's soft fur and seems to be refusing to look at Sherlock.

Mycroft can just barely hear his brother's murmured words.

"It's fine, honestly. Just because he's busy doesn't mean he hates you."

"He _does_," Enola wails, voice muffled by her rabbit. "First Mummy didn't go to ballet class and now Myc won't talk to me and everyone hates me! I'm all _alone_!"

Sherlock scowls a bit. "I've been hanging about with you all week you bloody ingrate."

"That doesn't count, you're _always_ here," Enola retorts with a sniff. "No one who _matters_ likes me."

That draws a rather hurt-looking expression from Sherlock, who rocks back on his heels to fix her with a wordless stare. A short silence follows - apparently Sherlock's having trouble deciding what to say to that. Understandable, really. It's obvious Enola didn't mean her words to be an insult; which, in a way, is more painful than a deliberate jab would have been. More likely to be heartfelt... and more damaging. Especially to a child who Mycroft knows full-well hasn't been getting on well with his peers at school.

Time to intervene. Mycroft draws a steadying breath and finally makes his presence known.

"Is everything alright?" he asks of his little siblings, keeping his tone light in an effort to mask the fact that he's been eavesdropping. Sherlock glances up to him with a scowl. The expression does a poor job of masking the look of emotional distress still etched on his face. Enola, meanwhile, shoots upright and gasps.

"Mycroft!" she exclaims happily, flinging herself off the swing with enough force to send the seat slamming into Sherlock's chest. The boy gets knocked into the cobblestones of the garden path with a pained _oomph!_ while Enola barrels into Mycroft's legs.

"Enola!" Mycroft admonishes. Behind her Sherlock's picked himself up, waves a hand in a silent _I'm alright_ as he rubs gingerly at his sternum, still seated somewhat morosely on the stone path. Enola takes no notice, of course. She's far too busy grabbing onto her eldest brother's legs like a hyperactive leech.

"Everybody said you were busy but Sherlock went to find you anyways and then _he_ said you were busy too but he must've lied cause you're here now and I gotta show you all the stuff I learned in ballet last week it's really neat we did a-"

She continues to babble excitedly about anything and everything. Mycroft glances up from the girl to find his little brother watching them with an expression somewhere between annoyance and despondency. Well this is just going splendidly, isn't it? Somehow Mycroft's just usurped Sherlock's usual role as the girl's favourite sibling, entirely by accident. This is not at all going to improve the issue of a possible bout of depression.

It's all a tad frustrating, really. Because as far as Mycroft's concerned the whims of their overexuberant baby sister can and always should remain firmly in the realm of _Sherlock's business. _He's the one who dotes on the girl after all - teaches her inappropriate skills for a young lady to possess, endures her enthusiastic trailing around after him all hours of the day and night and reads childish books with her like a decent big brother should. Mycroft, meanwhile, spends the majority of his time away at school, and on the rare occasion he makes it home his attention's inevitably tugged elsewhere by family problems or career prospects. Why Enola should choose to latch on to _him_ of all people he has no idea.

In a fit of desperation Mycroft tries to convey through hand gestures that Sherlock should collect their sister before she can topple him with her excited bouncing up and down into his legs. Despite clearly understanding the message, however, Sherlock just sneers slightly. The boy picks himself up off the garden path and without so much as a word for either of them stalks off out of sight around a corner. Well, then. So much for lending a hand.

Mycroft looks down to his sister instead. "Enola."

"-but I don't think she likes it really only she said she did and did you know that-"

"_Enola_," he snaps. The girl finally shuts her mouth and blinks up at him questioningly. "You need to go apologise to Sherlock."

"Why?" she asks. Mycroft carefully takes a step back, extricating himself from her clutches. Mercifully she lets him do so without immediately latching on again.

"You knocked him over with the swing, for one thing, and said some rather insensitive things which may have hurt his feelings."

Enola's eyes widen a bit and she glances over her shoulder, but of course Sherlock's already disappeared. She looks back to Mycroft.

"I'll say sorry later," she decides with a bright smile, tugging on Mycroft's trouser leg.

Mycroft frowns. "_Now_, please."

His little sister huffs a petulant breath through her nose. Dramatically as possible she lets go of his clothes and turns around to plod away after their brother. With a twinge of vexation Mycroft realises she's off to deliver an utterly insincere apology that will most likely leave Sherlock feeling more insulted than ever. Wonderful. Can nothing go right today?

Following the children isn't likely to do much good so Mycroft strides over to the garden swing instead. He takes a seat on the worn wood seat, pushes himself slowly back and forth and stares up into the blue summer sky. Enola will be back soon enough. Either Sherlock will be with her (unlikely) or Mycroft will find the boy later sulking over a gutted toad. Whatever the outcome he'll have to find a way to keep them all sane. Him, alone. Because there's no one else willing to step up... and because he can't abandon them.

Inadvertently his thoughts stray away from his siblings. He thinks instead of the summers of his own childhood - back when his parents had by all accounts seemed madly in love with each other and the three of them would take long holidays to the south of France.

Mummy had taught him about the different types of seashells, walking together up and down the warm sandy beach. Father had chimed in with facts about world oyster trade. They'd been... happy. Somehow.

He shuts his eyes and sighs.


End file.
